"I remember now, my lord——" she began.
"Young or old?" he said, not loudly, but with a quiet insistence.
"Young," replied Celia.
To her surprise and relief, the Marquess gave a little dry, almost contemptuous, laugh; and as he turned to her, with his hands folded behind his back, there was a faint smile on his face.
"Who is he?" he asked.
"I don't know," replied Celia.
"You don't know!" said his lordship, raising his brows. "Pardon me, I don't understand."
Celia stood before him, her hands clasped together in a clasp that, light at first, became tighter; her eyes were downcast, a slight fold came between her brows; for an inappreciable second or two, she lost consciousness of the great hall, the tall, bent figure silhouetted against the fire; she was back in Brown's Buildings, in that poverty-stricken room, and she saw the young man's head lying on his outstretched arm, a revolver in his hand.
"I don't know," she repeated, returning, suddenly, from that vision of the past. "It was someone I met, saw, for a short time——"
"But his name?" said the Marquess, with a subdued impatience.